A Brief History of Heartland Synth Rock, Inspired by the War on Drugs

Electronic sounds have been a part of popular music’s palette since the early ’60s, but the 1980s marked the moment that synth pop went supernova. Its ubiquity could be best gauged not by the number of creatively coiffed, button-pushing Brits monopolizing the fledgling MTV airwaves, but by how eagerly the sound was adopted by grizzled American rock bands. ZZ Top rewired their Southern boogie with sequencers and drum machines, while Van Halen scored the biggest single of their career with the synth-sparkled “Jump.” By mid-decade, synths had even seeped into the most technophobic of subgenres: dyed-in-the-denim, heartland-bound roots rock.

By its very definition, roots music is the ideological opposite of synth pop. It’s music of the earth—traditional and timeless, built to weather cultural trends. But as open-minded rockers like Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty discovered, synthesizers could add deeply evocative hues to a pastoral vista, conjuring the twinkling of city lights in the rearview mirror or the cosmic grandeur of the night sky. The synth-smeared heartland rock of the ’80s is the sonic equivalent of a pastel landscape painting hanging above the bed in a Motel 6, or the animatronic cowboy that greets you at a Disney World Frontierland attraction—simultaneously authentic and artificial, chintzy but charming.

It’s also a sound that, until somewhat recently, would have fallen under the “horribly dated” category. For most classic-rock artists, the ’80s represented a nadir—a cocaine-clouded bad dream soundtracked by drum pads, soft-focus synth gloss, and wind chimes. (In the case of Bob Dylan, an entire tribute-album series was launched to right the era’s wrongs.) Even as Springsteen was reclaimed as an indie-rock icon in the early 2000s, the bands doing his bidding—be it Arcade Fire, the Hold Steady, or Titus Andronicus—were chasing the windswept, cavalry-charge bombast of Born to Run rather than the suave, streamlined pop of Tunnel of Love.

But in the last few years, more and more artists have been openly embracing the ’80s heartland synth aesthetic, reveling in the frisson between its elemental ruggedness and austere surfaces. In the hands of Kurt Vile or the War on Drugs, synths don’t smooth things out so much as they disorient them; they blur the lines between dream state and waking life, the real and the digital world, an uncertain future and a past that can’t be relived. With the War on Drugs’ latest ambient-rock opus, A Deeper Understanding, out this week, let’s take a late-night drive through plastic pastures to trace the evolution of the heartland-synth sound. (And yes, this is available as a playlist on Spotify and Apple Music—scroll down.)

Prototypes

Suicide — “Dream Baby Dream” (1979)

As the personification of late-’70s, New York-stewed urban paranoia, synth-punk pioneers Suicide were about as far away you could get—both musically and philosophically—from America’s heartland. But this hypno-droned lullaby from their second album betrayed their reverence for country-schooled rock‘n’roll trailblazers like Roy Orbison, and eventually, Suicide’s most famous fan would relocate the song to its natural dustbowl habitat.

Dire Straits — “Skateaway” (1981)

Years before “Money for Nothing” made Mark Knopfler the most famous non-athletic sweatband enthusiast in a pre–Richie Tenenbaum world, Dire Straits were a group of finger-picking Dylan and JJ Cale fans whose streetwise lyricism and musical precision got them swept up in the late-’70s new-wave insurgence. This track sees them transitioning out of their humble pub-rock roots and drifting toward their MTV future, swaddling Knopfler’s signature twang in a wool-sweater-warm synth hum and skeletal disco groove.

Neil Young — “Transformer Man” (1982)

On the quasi-title-track to his polarizing 1982 album, Trans, Neil didn’t just apply electronic touches to a country song—he imagined what it sound like if a robot performed it, swapping out pedal-steel sweeps for vocoder squeals.

Red Rider — “Human Race” (1983)

The War on Drugs garner a lot of comparisons to Springsteen, Dire Straits, and other iconic artists mentioned here. But for anyone who grew up on Canadian radio in the ’80s, the band’s swirl of glistening guitars, raspy vocals, and synth-washed motorik rhythms bears an uncanny resemblance to this Toronto-bred group, who achieved minor success in America but remain FM staples in their home country. (And if that voice sounds vaguely familiar to any non-Canadian listeners out there, it’s likely because, nearly a decade later, you heard it belting out this harmonica-honkin’ hit.)

Hits

Bruce Springsteen — “I’m On Fire” (1984)

The Boss’ Reagen-era blockbuster, Born in the U.S.A., epitomized ’80s stadium rock in excelsis, but its hushed centerpiece ballad imagined a neon Nebraska. While it takes the form of low-key countrified shuffle, that omnipresent synth fog serves as an audio Rorschach test, alternately casting the song as a sweet folksy serenade or an ominous entreaty from a sexual predator. A robo-roots synthesis so perfect, it’s the only song that could be faithfully covered by both Waylon Jennings and Chromatics.

Don Henley — “Boys of Summer” (1984)

While his fellow ’70s survivors mostly deployed electronic accents for subtle shading, the Eagles founder went all in with his signature synth-powered anthem. But its pulse-pumping pace is offset by tastefully twangy guitar licks—the proverbial Deadhead stickers on his tricked-out Cadillac.

Tom Petty — “Don’t Come Around Here No More” (1985)

Given how integral Benmont Tench’s Hammond organ tones were to the Heartbreakers’ musical identity, Tom Petty was a relatively late adopter of synth sounds. But for his Southern Accents album, he had an experienced electro-tweaker to hold his hand: Eurythmics co-founder Dave Stewart, whose electric sitar put a psychedelic spin on the heartland-synth aesthetic. You can still sense Petty’s discomfort in these clinical confines, though; in the song’s final minute, he shakes off the stuttering beat for an open-road rock-out, en route to his future travels with the Wilburys.

The Hooters — “All You Zombies” (1985)

You don’t really hear the Hooters on the radio these days, or at least not any songs they sing themselves: keyboardist Rob Hyman and guitarist Eric Bazilian backed up Cyndi Lauper on her hit-stacked debut She’s So Unusual, while the latter also penned Joan Osborne’s ’90s adult-contemporary standard “One of Us.” But their biblically charged single “All You Zombies” was all over the airwaves in 1985, and for good reason: its arena-sized fusion of desert-dusted folk song and melodramatic synth pop exemplifies mid-’80s mainstream American rock as much as their poofy haircuts and oversized, shoulder-padded blazers.

Hidden Gems

Bob Dylan — “When the Night Comes Falling From the Sky” (1985)

For 1985’s Empire Burlesque, His Bobness tapped the sonic acumen of New Order/Afrika Bambaataa mixmaster Arthur Baker. While the partnership didn’t exactly result in the Dylan-goes-Danceteria makeover of our dreams, it did yield this surging, synth-swept epic, which effectively retrofits “All Along the Watchtower” for a “Miami Vice” boat-chase scene.

Lone Justice — “Shelter” (1986)

Maria McKee’s rag-tag crew of reformed cow-punks were the toast of the roots-rock world with their 1985 self-titled debut, but despite assists from Little Steven and a couple of Heartbreakers (not to mention a tour supporting U2), a mainstream audience wasn’t forthcoming. So on the title track to their 1986 follow-up (another Little Steven co-write), they decided to meet it head-on, dressing up a folk-rock sing-along in oscillating synths and a gauzy aura.

The Meat Puppets — “Confusion Fog” (1987)

The Arizona peyote-punk trio were still a few years away from parlaying Kurt Cobain’s endorsements into a brief MTV Buzz Bin stint, but this winsome, synth-warped gallop from 1987’s Mirage presented a subterranean swimming-hole reflection of what was happening at the top of the rock charts.

Robbie Robertson — “Broken Arrow” (1987)

By the late ’80s, the collision of roots rock and synth pop was rippling out in ever more expansive and aqueous waves, thanks in large part to producer Daniel Lanois. On top of ushering in Bono’s cowboy-hat phase with The Joshua Tree, Lanois also commandeered the U2-graced solo debut from Robbie Robertson, recasting the former Band leader’s sepia-toned storytelling in a humid swamp of ambient textures.

Recent Examples

Constantines — “St. You” (2001)

When the Constantines first surfaced at the dawn of the millennium, Bruce Springsteen’s dormant influence had yet to exert its stranglehold over contemporary indie rock. This balladic breather from the band’s debut sound like “I’m On Fire” roasted on a campfire: what begins as a cheeky country entendre transforms into a thing of beauty once that synth line appears like the Aurora Borealis streaking across the night sky.

Kurt Vile — “Baby’s Arms” (2011)

This Smoke Ring for My Halo standout is the sonic equivalent of staring out the window of a speeding train in the middle of nowhere: there’s a constant but indistinct rhythmic hum down below, the countryside appears as a psychedelic blur on your glass canvas, and all you can do is think about the one you miss the most.

Phosphorescent — “Song for Zula” (2013)

In Matthew Houck’s hands, the intimate scale of Springsteen’s ’80s-synth-pop oeuvre gets blown up to Spiritualized proportions. With a swell of quivering violins serving as the wind in his sails, “Song for Zula” is a Tunnel of Love trip that spits you out on the South Pacific at sunset.

The War on Drugs — “Thinking of a Place” (2017)

The War on Drugs’ discography to date constitutes an ongoing campaign to melt down the earthy into the ethereal. And that process has never felt more dramatic than on the 11-minute epic that anchors their new album, A Deeper Understanding. Goaded along by aching guitar solos and heart-rending harmonica, “Thinking of a Place” is a tear-stained paean to a girl lost to the Missouri River, sung by the left-behind lover who seemingly wants to follow suit. Partway through, this rustic serenade submerges itself in a sea of synths—representing not just a seamless melding of oppositional musical forms, but the transmutation of sorrow into serenity.